Unbound
by Shurely
Summary: Following the opening chapter of TES V: Skyrim, Rathus the Argonian finds himself trundled off to Helgen, where a public execution awaits him and the others on the cart. However, the arrival of a dragon means escape - although he isn't alone in his endeavour.


The cart shuddered violently, jerking him awake. Instinctively, his nostrils flared and his eyelids burst open, triggering his gut reflexes to release a sulphurous odour. He saw light in a spectrum of intensity and colour, and it made him flinch. The sun's vibrant rays were filtered by the evergreen leaves of the forest, reflected by the blinding white snow that coated the mountains like icing on a sweetroll. It illuminated the pale, drawn expressions of other people - prisoners by their bound wrists – and in that moment, he realised he was among them. He whipped his head to one side and then the other, the end of his tail flicking against his ankles, but the rope was tough and chafed against his scales. No escape for him, or for anyone on the cart. He inhaled the earthen smell of the forest and its creatures, his own harsh scent lurking amongst that of the musky undergrowth. The air felt light, and he recognised the smell of pine – a type of tree practically non-existent in Black Marsh. The other prisoners smelt his fighting scent, and shuffled away as far as they could, fear and nausea etched onto their faces. Clearly they were unfamiliar with the nature of the Argonians. He snorted loudly, earning a suspicious glare from the cart driver.

He didn't bother to ask himself questions: he'd heard enough about the ruthless Imperials to know where he was going. An execution was certainly in order; however, he allowed himself to question the presence of the other prisoners. A man to his right, with unkempt blond hair and a Stormcloak's cuirass, had been arguing with the man to his left, the one with sunken brown eyes and ragged robes to complete his dishevelled appearance. There were two more - a gagged man at the end and a woman - but he didn't pay them much attention.

"Watch your tongue!" the blond suddenly snapped. "That's Ulfric Stormcloak you're speaking to! The true high king of Skyrim."

Amused, he watched the man to his left shiver, muttering anxiously and calling on the Divines. Meanwhile, the woman stared at the punctured overcast sky above them, as if searching for something that was hiding amongst the drift of clouds. The cart driver silenced the bickering prisoners as they approached a small village, which the blond man identified as Helgen. It was a pretty village - nothing compared to the lush and elaborate homes of the An-Xileel, but nice for the Nords. He had a feeling this was his stop, the real end of the road. He fidgeted, clasped hands writhing nervously to escape their bonds. The others either relaxed, accepting their fate, or looked around for a way out. He himself wasn't sure what to do.

It had been a simple yet brutal Imperial ambush that had led him to being captured. A group of his cousin's associates had been trying to smuggle some skooma - and him, of course - into Skyrim through Cyrodiil, from Black Marsh. He had known the risks, but by the Hist it was worth it! Or so he'd thought. He imagined the escape into Skyrim to be smooth, even boring, yet here he was, trudging off the cart and lining up as names were called for the execution he'd predicted.

The woman was last off the cart; he offered her a hand, but she barged past him. His jaw tightened, gills flexing. Arrogant Nords. Even in death they thought themselves above others. The man with sunken eyes exclaimed and made a dash for freedom, heading for the Helgen's front gates, and died before he could even disappear from sight. Fighting his nerves, his attention was caught by an Imperial soldier holding a register who told him to come forward. He did so, and swallowed when the soldier asked for his name. Should he lie? It probably didn't matter. He was on his deathbed anyway. Better to die with some dignity.

"Rathus," he rasped, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. His throat was dry; he hadn't tasted drink for hours.

The soldiers nodded. "And you?" he said, addressing the woman.

She fixed her gaze on him, silent for a second, obviously wondering how to respond. She must have come to the same conclusion he had, for she replied, in a Cyrodilic accent that told him she was an Imperial and not a Nord, "Aquila."

The soldier nodded again, sounding somewhat remorseful as he promised their families would be told of their...passing. Then they merged with the rest of the crowd to listen to a soldier called General Tullius make a speech criticising Ulfric Stormcloak and his band of rebels. The first man to be beheaded was a Stormcloak himself: all proud and condescending, even scorning the priestess reciting the rites. He slumped onto the block, his neck exposed to the headsman's axe. There was a dull _thud_ and his head came off. The woman beside him flinched but did not make a sound. He wondered why she was there. Maybe she was a thief, perhaps an assassin of some sort, or just plain unlucky for stumbling into the Imperial ambush.

Next, surprisingly, was the woman named Aquila. She walked forward, ready for the axe. Her head turned fractionally, and he caught a glimpse of her eyes - the colour of liquid gold. For a second, they stared at one another, then she continued without a word, kneeling by the block and looking up at her demise.

A loud snarl in the distance and shadow in the sky made him jump.

"Sentries!" a female Imperial yelled. "What do you see?"

Something was wrong: terribly, unnaturally wrong. His spine prickled, warning him of danger. His claws dug into his wrists, wanting to claw at the rope, and he settled into a fighting stance. Something was coming. His throat vibrated, and he realised he was growling.

The dragon crashed into the tower, and he dove for cover.

Hell broke loose as there was a noise akin to the deafening boom of thunder, and he cringed. Glancing up, he saw with terror the jet-black beast spewing fire from its gaping maw; the flames flooded the Imperials' ranks and many soldiers screamed in agony. The dragon took off, and he saw the prisoners unobtrusively making their bid for freedom. Someone grabbed his shoulder as he stood, and he whirled round to see Aquila dragging him to shelter. Buildings were already alit, burning amber and crumbling beneath the weight of the dragon. He swiftly followed her, shrugging off her hand and running to an open doorway to a tower.

Inside, there were some wounded Stormcloak rebels, including Jarl Ulfric himself and the blond-haired man who'd been in the cart. They seemed to dismiss the old Nord grudges and patted his back like a brother; he wanted to hiss his displeasure at the sudden change of heart, but knew his survival was a much more pressing matter. The woman strode to the bottom of the staircase, body tensed, apparently listening to the shouts and roars coming from outside. He himself tried to discern the dragon's location, whether it was close to the tower or not, and was rewarded with the sound of it smashing through the wall upstairs and unleashing a torrent of fire. He crouched, heart hammering in his chest, waiting to devoured or burnt alive.

"Hey." The woman spoke, her voice steady. "Let's keep going."

The blond grunted. "See you on the other side. I need to help these men. We'll be there in a moment."

Rathus blinked, his thoughts settling into place. "Right," he muttered, straightening and stumbling towards her. "Let's go."

He wasn't sure where he was going, but he tailed the woman closely, leaping out of the hole in the wall to land in a house of cinders and charred wood. The smoke filled his lungs, choking him, and his gills twitched. The pair of them burst into the open, aware of archers shooting desperately at the swooping creature. He could feel the uneven ground through the weak fabric of his boots, heat clinging to his ragged robes, and yearned to be hidden under a canopy of trees. Skyrim was too spacious, making it easy for people to be picked up and tossed like ragdolls - like those soldiers in front of him. He dodged a chunk of debris, and the woman pointed to another tower. He groaned, but knew it meant protection, and so jogged inside.

Rathus found himself in a rectangular room, with half a dozen tables and chairs. The metallic smell of blood stayed with him, but he was used to it. The woman snatched an iron dagger from one of the desks and severed the rope around her wrists. She turned, glowering determinedly, and advanced towards him. Horrified, he stepped back. His tail wavered, ready to whip her, and he balled his fists to knock the weapon out of her hands.

She sighed and beckoned to him. "Your bonds," she explained.

He frowned, and then gingerly held out his hands, prepared to lash at her with his tail. She reached out, dagger gleaming in the torchlight. He paused. The metal sliced through the rope, and she gave the ghost of a smile, picking up a sword.

"Which one?" she said, holding the sword and dagger.

He took the dagger, tying the sheath to his waist. She did the same with the sword. Then she approached a chest and rummaged through it; he peered over her shoulder and saw Imperial armour inside. Without hesitation, she began affixing the armour to her body, working quickly as the dragon rumbled outside.

She gestured to the grille to their left, which opened once she activated the chain.

"This way," she confirmed.

Seconds after it opened, two Stormcloak soldiers bellowed at them and swung their weapons. Startled by their appearance, Rathus dove to the side, while Aquila had already taken out her sword and was smashing it against their shields. Their attention thus diverted, he used the opportunity to creep forward, and thrust his dagger into one of the assailant's necks. The other was swiftly dispatched as Aquila's sword impaled his chest. He nodded to her, and she hummed.

"There's a gate here," she said, "so search the bodies for a key."

He delved into the Stormcloaks' pockets, and found what he was looking for; he chucked it over to her, and she opened the gate, signalling for him to follow. She walked ahead, allowing him to skulk behind and warily glance back for any soldiers. A staircase spiralled downwards, but just as they entered a corridor adjoining it, the ceiling collapsed before them, heralded by the ferocious roar of the dragon.

"Get back!" Aquila yelled.

The shockwave sent him sprawling, but she hauled him to his feet before any of the rubble could crush him. Thankfully, no more of the ceiling caved in on them, and they proceeded onwards, albeit with earnest expressions. Through the only door available to them were two Stormcloaks, muttering to themselves and apparently rounding up supplies. Rathus executed them with quick, accurate stabs to their napes, ramming the blade between their armour and helmet. Meanwhile, Aquila stuffed some scraps of cooked meat and potions into a satchel - taken from one of the dead bodies - and they continued onward.

They descended further, all warmth lost in the cold draught of the underground. He shivered. Aquila gave him a sympathetic look: he hadn't taken any armour. Well, the stubborn part of him refused to wear the armour of the Stormcloaks, even though this was about survival and not taking sides in a civil war. Besides, who was there to judge him? He stole a glance at the Imperial woman, who was squinting into the darkness, left hand by the pommel of her sword.

Spotting light just ahead, he quickened his pace; however, before he could investigate its source, an arm slammed against his chest. He released a low growl, but Aquila shook her head.

"Torture room," she mouthed.

Understanding, he stepped back, waiting for her to go first. She looked defiant, angry even, as she went down the stairs one step at a time. At the bottom, a fight was going on: a couple of Stormcloaks were taking on what looked like a torturer. Blinding violet streaks of electricity burst from the hands of the torturer; beneath his cowl, Rathus saw his smirk. Aquila readied her sword, and pierced the torso of one of the Stormcloaks from behind as they tried to retreat. The torturer and his assistant took care of the others; however, it seemed Rathus' companion wasn't done yet. Hollering furiously, she slit their throats with a simple flick of her sword; they died with strangled shouts and wearing surprised expressions.

Rathus warily proceeded towards her. She must have noticed his startled gaze, for she tried a smile and relaxed.

"Torturers," she said flatly, "are cruel abominations. Dishonourable." Her stare dared him to say otherwise; he had enough sense not to. Instead, he wandered around the gaol cells, inspecting their contents - mostly mutilated corpses - and found himself pondering whether the skeleton chained to the wall was real or not.

"Hey, Argonian." Irritated by her demanding tone, he turned to her. She pointed to one of the cells, where a mage's husk was splayed inside. "I noticed your aptitude at stealth. There are some lockpicks here. Do you think you can open this cell?"

He puffed his chest proudly. "My name is Rathus," he replied firmly, "and naturally, I can. The question is: why?"

"That man is wearing mage's robes." She made it sound like it was obvious.

"You don't seem like the mage type to me, _Imperial_," he quipped. "But if it means proving my worth instead of being deemed as scaled filth, then I will oblige." He got hold of the lockpicks, noticing her startled expression, and went to open the cell. With a quiet "Thanks", she brushed past him to unclothe the dead mage. He turned away. There was a path leading from the gaol, but he couldn't tell whether anyone had been down there recently.

"Hey, there's a spell tome and a few septims here. I think it would be best to keep them."

"Fine," he replied, not wasting any words. Instead, he approached the torturer's assistant, and replaced his thin rags with Imperial armour. It felt strange, strapping the heavy steel bracers to his arms and fitting his webbed feet into the reasonably snug boots. Inside, he knew it was a feeling he would have to become acquainted with. Argonian armour was much lighter, designed for guerrilla tactics and fleeting movements throughout the trees that engulfed the marshes and mires. This armour didn't even have a tail piece. Nevertheless, some protection was better than nothing.

"You ready?" he enquired.

She straightened up and fiddled with the mage's cowl obscuring her coal black hair, tucking away the robes in a knapsack taken from the table. He decided not to question why. Perhaps she would sell them later for more gold.

"Yes, of course," she responded.

He pointed to the path. "This way."

They passed more gaol cells, each as dirty and cramped as the other, and Rathus shifted uncomfortably in his armour when he saw the skeletons hanging from their cages. Even if Aquila hadn't been so intimidating, he would have still agreed with her: torturing was cruel. He clenched his jaw. Cruel, but necessary. The stonework disappeared momentarily as they entered earthen tunnels; he heard talking and the running of water from just ahead. Eventually, they reached some sort of chamber, where water dripped from the ceiling and Stormcloaks hugged themselves against the cold that seeped through their cuirasses.

They were around half a dozen of them, but Aquila was adept with her sword. Rathus tried to contribute as much as he could, ducking under sweeping blades and driving his dagger into their exposed armpits, but it was clear who was the superior warrior between him and his companion. Blood splattered onto his scales as he finished off the remaining Stormcloaks, shadowing the Imperial as her blade carved a path away from the gaol cells. Then he saw something on the ground: a hunting bow. At the sight of the weapon, he recalled the first bow that had ever been fashioned for him, back in Black Marsh, by a Bosmer woman who had found work as a bowyer. She had been kind to him and his family, and he had been one of her apprentices before her departure back to Valenwood.

Rathus had admired Cirwen the Bosmer, and although she had insisted that he was still an amateur, he had considered himself one of her best disciples at archery. His skill with a bow had been revealed when he picked one up and managed to hit the target's head - completely by chance. At that moment, the other novices had gawped in awe and Cirwen had stood beside them, equally as stunned. From then onwards, he had been trained properly, given the most attention, and as the Bosmer had admitted herself during her final days in Black Marsh, it had not been for naught.

He bit his tongue, the pain bringing him back to reality. A corpse was strewn next the bow, guts spilling over his abdominal wound, but Rathus was only interested in the quiver around his shoulder. He rolled the body onto its side, aware that Aquila was being forced backwards by three opponents, simultaneously slinging the quiver onto his shoulder and nocking an arrow.

He whirled round. Aquila cast a fleeting glance at him, curiosity laced with panic. The wood of the arrow fitted between his fingers, he breathed in, filling his lungs completely with air. Time seemed to slow; adrenaline surged through his veins, sharpening his vision and focusing his concentration. He aimed at the brunette Stormcloak. The Imperial roared in defiance. He breathed out. And loosed the arrow.

By the time one of the trio had fallen, he was already aiming at the next. Emboldened by his support, Aquila regained her footing and retaliated with renewed vigour, slicing a man's jugular open, dancing past the gurgling Stormcloak to find the last of the three on her knees, an arrow through her chest. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, she turned towards the only explanation and opened her mouth to speak. Just as he thought she was about to praise him, she closed it, and her surprise hardened into distaste. She looted the body for a few septims and two maps, passing him one of them and more iron arrows to fit into his quiver. He thought he deserved some of the money, and so tried to find some gold for himself; unfortunately, it seemed the Imperial possessed some kind of luck that helped her discover more, even though on some corpses he found nothing whatsoever.

They waded through underground streams, taking note of the old skeletons tucked into blocked-off passageways, trying to detect anyone else trying to escape the sudden dragon attack. Rathus didn't understand, and it was apparent Aquila didn't either. A dragon? They were Nordic legends, the dreams of children born long after the Oblivion crisis. They weren't supposed to exist. Not in this era. No, they weren't supposed to descend from the skies after hundreds of years to rend soldiers limb from limb and incinerate entire towns. He bristled.

"Faring well, Rathus?" said Aquila.

He inclined his head. "Adequately."

She afforded him a questioning look, of which he did not react to.

Up ahead, he heard strange noises: light rustling and clicking. Rats? No, he knew the sound of rats - even skeevers, thanks to the den he and his fellow Saxhleel had accidentally crossed when on their cart - and this was different. Aquila swallowed, her eyes wide with fear. She motioned for him to slow, and stretched out a hand to catch a giant cobweb on her fingers, allowing the white silk to stick to her gauntlet. He understood. Whatever variant of spider this was, he was sure it had to be big: no ordinary spider produced such audible footsteps. He drew his bow as she unsheathed her sword, and the two of them cautiously walked forward.

The cavern had mossy stalagmites jutting out from the rocks. Streaking from them in intricate, delicate patterns were more cobwebs, too large to belong to ordinary spiders. Then he saw them: dusky orange and brown, mandibles clicking as they crawled over their eggs sacs. In his peripheral vision, he saw Aquila shudder. Their round, beady eyes – like black orbs – seemingly passed over them, but they must not have distinguished them from the shadows. He nocked an arrow, aimed at one of the creatures, and shot the nearest one cleanly between its mandibles. It shrieked and died, alerting the others to the threat. Inhaling sharply, the Imperial leapt out and slashed at them; her blade swung wildly through their legs, dismembering them before dealing the final strike through their brains. When she stepped back, he heard her frantic panting.

"Don't like spiders?" he said, unable to stop the tease.

Her breath settled, and she glowered at him. "No." Then she stormed away.

With a weary sigh, he followed her, collecting his arrow from the spider. He understood that she would be angered by the Imperial legion, particularly as she was an Imperial herself; however, venting it upon him was unfair. Now he had learnt about fairness and justice – Black Marsh spared none of it – but what she had said about honour and the torturers lacking it meant she must have a strong opinion on it. Still, why would she remain furious for so long? Maybe she was afraid. Well, she was certainly afraid of the spiders – was she also afraid of being trapped underground, unable to escape from the dragon and forever prey to the huge spiders?

When Aquila's arm struck his chest for the second time, he considered snarling at her, but her alarmed expression caught the words in his throat. Following her gaze, he saw a mound of dark brown fur just ahead. He inhaled sharply. A bear.

"Follow me," she whispered. She dropped to her haunches and started waddling away from the bear, holding her sword by its pommel and tilting it so it wouldn't hit the rocks and alert the beast. Before she could crawl out of range, however, he grabbed her wrist, and shook his head.

"No," he hissed, "it will hear you. You're too loud." Ignoring her look of protest, he yanked her back and let go so he could shoot the creature with his bow. "Wait until it's dead."

She humphed. "You can't kill it with an arrow," she retorted scornfully.

"Watch and find out."

Steadying his breath, he raised the hunting bow, one finger above and two fingers below the arrow's fletching, and waited. He felt the strain on his hand's muscles as he pulled back the string, fingertips just touching it. Aquila was silent; she regarded him incredulously, arms folded. He loosed the arrow, and from the bear's low grunt and slumped body, he guessed he had found his mark. He turned to his companion, who gasped in disbelief.

"Stay here," she commanded, and ran forward to investigate the bear.

When she came back, her scowl was so intense, he thought she might start breathing flames at him. But she pointed to a path that led away from the cavern and – incredibly – towards a door of white light. He chuckled in relief.

The open air greeted them with a cool breeze; with it came the faint odour of burning wood and flesh. He heard the dragon's thunderous wings as it sailed overhead; thankfully, it did not notice him or the Imperial. His spirits lifted for the first time since entering Skyrim, for now he could leave and search for a new home in the province. Yet he was lost without his cousin and his fellow Argonians who had travelled with him and died during the ambush. He racked his brain, trying to recall where their base of operations was for the skooma trade. He brought out the map Aquila had given him and scrutinised it carefully. There! Southeast, near Morrowind, was Riften: he was _sure_ that was where his cousin had wanted to go.

"Well then, Rathus." He turned, and saw Aquila looking up at the sky, no longer angry but instead pensive. "It seems this is where our journey together ends."

He blinked. "Ah yes, of course. Where are you headed?"

"Riverwood." She afforded him a suspicious glance. "You?"

"Riften."

She nodded. "All right then. Farewell." She started walking down the cobbled path, but stopped. "I don't think that, you know."

"What?"

"That you're scaled filth," she replied simply.

He grinned. "Well, I was under the impression that _everyone_ thought that."

Her lips twitched, and she raised her eyebrows. Rathus' grin faded.

"I don't suppose I could accompany you to Riverwood…?" he asked politely.

"And why is that?"

"Two survivors of a dragon attack are more believable than one."

She pursed her lips. "Who are you intending to tell of our tale?"

"Anyone who listens. Maybe someone who can fight them off."

"No such person exists."

"Unless we spread the word, you don't know that for certain." He hummed. "Besides, I wouldn't want another unlucky fellow to be slaughtered just because you deemed his hobbies to be 'dishonourable'. You seem like a dangerous woman to be around, Aquila."

Now definitely smirking, she resumed striding down the path, and he took the initiative to follow. "Then I will advise you to stay cautious."

"Without a doubt," he promised.

She murmured something under her breath, and he laughed, glad that he was unbound from Black Marsh and – more importantly – his past. In Skyrim, he would start a new life. His brothers and sisters in Gideon would die for this opportunity. He could send them money, help them with their impoverished lives from afar, all the while accompanying the Imperial who could earn a name for both of them.

He adjusted the quiver's strap and slung the bow's string over his shoulder, and walked by Aquila's side to Riverwood.


End file.
